


"Waiting at the light, know what I mean?"

by Creamteasforever



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dark, Fatlock, Food, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:19:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2058999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creamteasforever/pseuds/Creamteasforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doesn’t every fluff-writer do a nightmare fic to balance the scales once in a while? Here’s mine. Fatlock and lots of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Waiting at the light, know what I mean?"

**Author's Note:**

> A. Aris_Silverfin and FatlocknDomJohn did a spooky horror Fatlock fic, chock full of ideas.   
> B. It got me wanting to write a spooky horror Fatlock fic.   
> C. So I did a spooky horror fic.   
> D. Enjoy!

Sherlock’s stomach roared angrily. He rubbed it anxiously. 

"Hungry?" John asked, looking somehow different, taller and thinner as though distorted by a funhouse mirror. 

"Cavernous," Sherlock murmured, looking around the room - but there didn’t seem to be any room, just vague shadows, himself and his double facing each other off. "Starving. I have to have something for my transport before I collapse."

"Good," John told him. "You’re going to be much hungrier before we’re done here."

By that strange unknown alchemy, the simple words were the very stuff of nightmare, and Sherlock shrank back, terrified, his body aching with emptiness and longing for food. There were faint fragrances on the air, oranges, fresh baked-bread, and he wanted so much to eat some of it, anything that could quiet the raging hunger inside him. 

"This is what you wanted, isn’t it?" John whispered, circling him and nodding his head up and down, like a snake. "The thinness, the certitude of control. You were doing so well at it, but you’ve gotten lazy. Eating more, enjoying desserts and flesh. You want someone to keep you in line." His smile broadened. "That’s what I’m here for. To order you to do all the things you won’t."

"I don’t want this any more," Sherlock said weakly, hugging himself tightly and curling up to try to stop his awareness of the way his body was tearing away at itself, taking apart its own substance in the attempt to stay alive. "Make it stop now, please. Just something to eat, that’s all I’m asking."

"You were always such a good little student," John ruffled his hair, laughed as a long black curl came away. "There goes one of your last little vanities, but then the minor sacrifices are worth it to get what you desire, aren’t they? I promise you, you’ll melt away to nothing, just the way you always wanted. You’ll be the prettiest skeleton at the graveyard, not a bit of fat on you."

"It’s gone too far," Sherlock said weakly. "I can’t…" He breathed out, tried to breathe in again, found he couldn’t. John was saying something but he couldn’t hear it over the roaring in his ears, his heart shuddering in his chest trying to pump out one more beat, not being able to because there was no more energy left to fuel it, and for a moment he felt it, hanging there in his chest, before it stopped all together - 

 

With a gasp, Sherlock shuddered into life again, huddling into the mattress and pulling the bedclothes around him more closely. He’d been having that dream again. Of course. 

Shakily, he reached out for the glass of water he always kept by his nightstand now and sipped it, along with one of the dry oatcakes he was allowing himself these days. It was against his usual principles to eat midnight snacks, but lately he’d been trying to see if it’d calm him down at all. They did seem to help a little. 

There was soft snoring in the next room, John’s breathing sounding as even and regular as always. His roommate wasn’t insomniac, Sherlock thought rebelliously; why am I? It wasn’t as though his transport wanted to be awake; it was exhausted, unresponsive. There was only so long you could work the human body before it stopped responding with maximum efficiency, and he was long past that point. The nightmares had started last week, had continued every night since. 

He couldn’t imagine what they meant. John hadn’t been behaving differently, hadn’t done a single thing to upset even the high-strung nerves of London’s foremost detective. At first he’d ignored the dreams, then guessed that he needed to consume something more substantial than his usual light breakfasts and thoughtless teas. Reluctantly, he’d nerved himself to eating heavily that evening, forcing himself to go out alone and down a hasty, half-guilty meal at Angelo’s. He’d gone to bed with a light heart, but it hadn’t stopped him waking up at two in the morning, soaked in sweat and afraid to go back to sleep. The next day he’d tried fasting, not even allowing himself a cup of coffee or a biscuit, but that had made it far worse. His subconscious seemed determined to regal him with pictures of his suffering and starvation, and all at John’s hands. 

This time, he was fighting sleep and losing; with as little rest as he’d had, he was so exhausted that he’d fall into REM sleep right away. But he couldn’t tolerate the thought of any more self-imposed horrors just now. 

There was a knock on his door. “Sherlock?”

Despite everything, he cringed against the sheets at the too-familiar voice. “Come in,” he called, steadily as he could manage. 

John entered, clad in those ridiculous pyjamas of his, looking concerned. “Sherlock, what’s been going on? You look terrible.”

If he’d asked whether anything was wrong Sherlock would have huffily denied anything and turned over to go back to sleep; as it was he succumbed. “Nightmares. Rather bad ones. I’ve not been sleeping at all well.”

John sat down on the bed. “Evidently. Want to talk to someone about them?”

And for a moment Sherlock did, desperately wanted to, but when he opened his mouth the words wouldn’t come out. “I…I’m afraid, John. For no reason, which is the worst of it. Paralysingly afraid of nothing.” 

"Dream diary," John said promptly. "It’ll help you cope once you find patterns in the nothing, tell you what’s specifically worrying you. Then you can do something about it. Worked really well for a mate of mine."

Sherlock nodded wearily - he hardly needed help recognizing the patterns here, and contemplating the days more of broken sleep he’d need to write down new examples made his head swim. But it did give him an idea. “Maybe…maybe I could write this last one down,” he said in a small voice. “Let you look at it and you could give me some advice.”

He hastily grabbed a notebook from a drawer and scribbled down a few lines, not editing himself, taking a fierce, distraught joy in recording all his worst imaginings. What sort of person had thoughts like this about their easy-going roommate? Love or lust, hatred or simple dislike - but torture and brutality? He wondered dimly how much of his terror was simply being confronted night after night with this dream John who was the opposite of kind and thoughtful, looked just like his trusted companion with none of the humanity. “Here,” he said huskily. 

John looked, read; it took him only a few moments to finish the spidery lines. “Sherlock, this is pretty horrible,” he agreed. “No wonder you’re not sleeping. Have they all been like this?”

"Yes. I haven’t slept for a week now, not properly. I can’t get it out of my mind, I don’t know what’s causing it, and I don’t know what’s making it happen. Or trying to convince me that you’re frightening, when you’re very much not." Guilt thickened his throat, though he wasn’t sure for what. 

"Your body’s worried about starving itself," John said softly. "And your subconscious is upset at me for letting you do it." He reached out and laid a hand on Sherlock’s chest. "There’s not half a inch of flesh between the air and those ribs. It’s like I’ve been deliberately enabling. I’m a doctor, I should be taking care of you." John blinked twice, hard, as though to banish tears. 

"I’m sorry," Sherlock said. "I shouldn’t have told you."

"Don’t feel bad. You’re frightened, you’re worn out and you’re not thinking straight right now. I don’t mind. Right now, I think we need to get a meal into you."

He shook his head firmly. “That isn’t the problem. I’m not hungry.”

"You haven’t been eating right for so long I’m not sure you know what hunger feels like any more. Come along to the kitchen, I’ll get you something to eat."

Yawning involuntarily, he followed, bare feet padding across the floors. It was just about possible to rest your head against the cabinets if you sat on the counter the right way; he did so, closing his eyes against the yellow glare of lights. John switched on the radio to something light and rummaged through the fridge, came out with a glossy black pot. 

"Leftover spaghetti in this one. It’s still cold, I’m afraid, but there’s some tomato sauce in there to liven it up." He stuck a fork in and passed it to Sherlock. 

"I don’t mind it cold, I just don’t think I could manage the whole thing-"

"Eat," John ordered, all the authority of the former soldier in his voice. "Eat it right now, Sherlock."

Sherlock obediently ate. 

His capacity surprised him; anyone who ate as little as he did ought not be able to get through much food without getting full, but he found himself gulping down the pasta strands eagerly, and realised as he finished it off he wasn’t much less hungry than when he’d started. More so, maybe; the pasta seemed to have tantalised his appetite rather than satisfy it and he felt his stomach grumbling, accepting the influx and demanding more. John watched him silently; Sherlock wondered what he was thinking. 

"Good start, but you need more. Here," he said, offering a carton. "Curried chicken, it’s leftovers from my lunch yesterday. I’ve warmed it up a bit."

Sherlock dug into the steaming orange stuff, finding the meat inside pleasantly savoury and tasty. Not much to look at but appetising enough; he devoured it in a couple of minutes. 

"There’s some chocolate eclairs in here," John said from the fridge. "Four of them left. Bit of sugar will do you good."

It was, Sherlock thought; they were cold and had crystallised the gooey innards he’d normally have despised into a creamy, biteable substance inside the rich buttery pastry. He ate them one by one, watching his roommate muck about with the pots and pans. 

"Still hungry?" John asked, then without waiting for an answer continued. "Bit of mixed grill for you next, I think. There’s some leftover veg I can put in, a couple of chops and some rashers and sausage. See if you don’t feel better after getting through that lot."

It’s not exactly my sort of thing, Sherlock thought - too much meat in it, far too much fat - but John was gazing at the frying pan with a sort of enthused, determined expression and he didn’t quite feel up to opposing it. 

"There’s some Orange Pippins to tide you over in the meantime. I’ll have this done in no time at all."

John poured out a last cup of cold coffee for himself; Sherlock longed for some but guessed he’d best not muddle his metabolism with any caffeine. Instead he chewed on a couple of apples, listening to the crackle of BBC radio and frying grease. His roommate handled the pan with the practised air of an expert, finishing it off quickly enough to warrant the boasting. He felt a little better when John removed a sausage and a tidbit of bacon to his own plate; it made it feel more random and ordinary, as though they were simply two roommates who’d gotten hungry and decided to make something for themselves, late at night. Sort of domestic. 

And it was a nicer dish than he’d expected; the vegetables soaked up some of the fat, leaving the meat crispy and chewy. 

"Good, yeah?"

"Mmm," Sherlock said, tackling it with more zeal. He felt a bit brighter, even more alert, as he ate his way through the dish; there was a certain reassuring simplicity to it. "Your nights out drinking have not been in vain. It’s very soothing."

John shook his head, not quite keeping the impressed look off his features. “Deduction or observation?”

"Observation. This is what you always make for yourself as a hangover cure, isn’t it?" Even in his current state he wasn’t quite devoid of his usual skills, Sherlock thought happily. He licked his lips, sucked the last bit of bacon fat off his spoon. 

"Picked it up at university That enough for you, or do you fancy another round?" 

Sherlock thought. “I could still manage a bit more, even after all that.” It went against long-ingrained instinct to say it - after all the food he’d gone through already - but there was still an unsatisfied corner that wanted topping up. 

John chuckled lightly. “Thought you might. It’s nice to see you eating for a change. You act as though that brain of yours can run on air or something.”

"I usually do all right," Sherlock pointed out. "This is not a regular sort of problem."

"But the first time you’ve had a lull between cases like this for a while. I think your body’s just getting a word in edgewise when you’re not making unreasonable demands of it." He yanked the fridge open again. "We’re running out of amusing options, but…here we go. Milk and there’s Ovaltine in the cupboard, and I can fix you some toast. If that doesn’t work I’m ordering us takeout."

"At this hour…oh well, I suppose somebody would be up. We are in London." He watched as John warmed up the milk in a saucepan, spread butter and Marmite and cheddar onto the grilled bread. It was just the thing, dampened down that shaky hunger of his at last. John nibbled on a stray chunk of the cheese and stood there quietly, watching him polish it off. 

"I think I feel better now, I’m stuffed full." Sherlock said sleepily, once he’d finished the last drop of malty milk, the last bite of buttered toast. The odd combination of foods seemed to have gone surprisingly well together; he was sure it was having a soporific effect above and beyond his impending exhaustion. 

John smiled at him, a far different and much more soothing smile than the frightening one he’d had in the dream. “Good. Well done, Sherlock. Now see if you can get some sleep.”

But I don’t want to have the nightmare again, Sherlock thought drowsily as he was guided to the bedroom and fell into bed. Don’t want…

The next thing he knew, it was morning, and he was feeling bright and awake. John had fallen asleep on the chair besides him, a hand still protectively laid on his companion. He stirred as Sherlock sat up. 

"Sleep well, then?" 

"Never better, actually."

"Good," John said, looking relieved. "As your physician, I’m prescribing you a full English at the closest caffy we can find. See if the nightmares don’t stop once you’re eating more." 

"I’ll be a very good patient," Sherlock promised. He swung out of bed, pulled a pair of trousers up under his frilled nightshirt, knowing it gave him a usefully romantic Byronic look. "Let’s go right now, I’m peckish."

"I’m still in my pyjamas," John protested with a grin. "Blimey, you’re keen all a sudden."

"John, have you ever known me to do anything by halves?"

John pondered the question for a moment, about a roommate who had to go to the edge of a psychological breakdown just to admit to himself that he might like a proper meal for a change. “I suppose not,” he agreed, cautiously. 

"Then hurry up and let’s go. I’ll let you wear the Belstaff if you’re so worried about your looks."

"Ooh!" All thoughts of tacky undergarments were forgotten; John grabbed the coat and put it on triumphantly. "Can I take the scarf, too?"

Sherlock shook his head. “No scarf, John. That’s mine.”

"Oh. Are you sure? It goes so well…"

They went out of the flat together, laughing and relaxed.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, because what would a Fatlock Sherlock have nightmares about, I ask you. 
> 
> The rest of it was just padding. Ha.


End file.
